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“’Tis not so much dislike as indifference. I may have been born in France, but my home is in Madeira.”
“And so you owe yer loyalty to the House of Bragnaca?”
He gave a faint shrug. “I am a businessman. My loyalty belongs to whoever is likely to offer me the most profit.”
She gave a sudden laugh. “A gent with intelligence. A ra
re combination. I shall keep my eye on you, sir. I’ve a sense you’ll be going far.”
“No doubt straight to hell,” Philippe said dryly.
“Oh, aye. In time.” She did not seem particularly concerned about his imminent trip to the fiery depths of the netherworld, but then neither was Philippe. “Now, about this Frenchman. He was at the Cock and Bull near three weeks ago.”
Philippe leaned forward. “What did he look like?”
“A small, slight man with gray hair that was thin on top. He was dressed in plain, good wool and carried an ebony cane. There was a scar here…” Dolly lifted her hand to point at the edge of her right brow. “It ran down his cheek.”
Philippe froze as the memory of a stranger who had so unexpectedly arrived at their estate in Madeira rose to mind. Philippe had been young, no more than eleven or twelve when the man had forced his way past the servants and began to storm through the house, demanding the return of his property. Watching from the staircase, Philippe had listened as the demented stranger had threatened to kill Louis Gautier if he did not give him the precious artifacts discovered in the tomb of the Egyptian prince. Whether or not he would have carried out the threat went unknown as Louis had pulled a dagger from his boot and sliced the stranger from his brow to the edge of his mouth.
A terrible wound that exactly matched the scar that Dolly described.
A cold flare of satisfaction raced through him. “That is the man I seek. Did you catch a name?”
“One of the sailors called him Seurat.”
“Seurat.” He tested the unfamiliar name. Louis had sworn over the years that he had no notion who the stranger might be, or why he had been so determined to claim the artifacts as his own, but he had never quite given up his fear that the madman might return. A fear that was obviously well founded. “Was anyone with him?”
“Nay. He came by himself.”
“Did he speak to anyone in particular?”
Dolly gave a firm shake of her head. “Sat in a corner and drank his self senseless three nights running. Occasionally he would talk to himself loud enough to disturb the other customers.”
Damn. Philippe clenched his teeth. He had hoped that there might be someone in London who could give him a clue to Seurat’s eventual destination.
“Have you seen him since?”
“Nay. He has not been near the docks.”
It was what Philippe had expected. The villain would hardly be considerate enough to hang about to be captured. Still, he could not deny a flare of disappointment.
“Thank you, Dolly. I will remember your assistance.”
The woman gave a nod of her head as she rose and awkwardly climbed out of the carriage. Once on the street she turned back to regard Philippe with a somber expression.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Most folk around here have some sort of trouble or sickness, but this Seurat…”
“What about him?”
“He was sicker than most.”
Philippe frowned. “He has an illness?”
“Up here.” She tapped a finger to her temple. “There is something queer in his attic. He’s a dangerous man. A desperate man.”
